Bedrock
by loneguppy
Summary: Waiting for destiny was his life. Yet the man responsible for keeping the prophecy never imagined living in prehistory. The day finally comes when he shares his secret for beating isolation and boredom.


**BEDROCK**

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><p><strong>Summary: Waiting for destiny was his life. Yet the man responsible for keeping the prophecy never imagined living in prehistory. The day finally comes when he shares his secret for beating isolation and boredom.<strong>

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><p>For Peter Bishop, being in the machine was akin to being omnipresent. Well. He literally was occupying two places at the same time. If that was not surreal enough, he was in a room with two Walter Bishops and two Olivia Dunhams. When he was talking with his two dads, he felt a force yank him away... where. He was about to find out.<p>

He was not aware of how long he was unconscious for. Peter came to lying face down on a paved road. Aside from being disoriented, he felt a physical transformation as well. For starters, his hair grew out, and on his chin was a fully grown beard. Looking down, he was barefoot and wearing nothing except a loin cloth. Without much body hair, he shuddered from a cool breeze, blowing from the west.

Standing in the middle of a crossroad, he chose to go with the flow, began to walk east. Doing so he didn't notice the vehicle moving at an unsafe velocity. How would he know a car here had no motor and simply ran on people power. Before he knew it, Peter was catapulted ten feet from his current position, and landed on a patch of soft earth.

The driver, a burly neanderthal, waddled as fast as he could over to his side yelling in a loud gruff voice, "Egad! Are you alright?"

Peter blinked three times just to be sure. _OK_. He was still in one piece. "Yeah," he managed to croak. "Yeah. I think so."

Getting a better look at the man now, Peter noticed he was also wearing a suit of fur. With one hand, the guy, who said his name was Fred, pulled him back onto his feet. The impact from the fall must have made him a bit loopy, for he didn't think much of it when the man started his car with a running start.

A while later, they arrived in front of a house that looked like it could belong on the cover of _Good Cave Keeping_. It was a crude stone dwelling, but unmistakeably it was a house.

The man marched up the cobbled walk and opened the door. Much like the king of his castle, he announced his presence to anyone within. "Wilma! I'm home!"

That night, his hosts extended their hospitality by insisting he stay the night. Peter was so tire, he didn't mind sleeping on a granite mattress. He nodded off right away, even having a dream of Olivia. That dream was so tactile, he imagined he could feel her warm body lying next to his.

In the morning, he woke up with a start to find Wilma's white frock lying on top of his blanket. He smiled awkwardly at Fred's voluptuous wife as she strolled into his room to drop off a fur for him to wear. He tugged down at the woefully short loin cloth of his until she left.

Peter was about to throw on his new garment when he noticed a creepy old man staring back at him through the window in the room.

"Yo, Dorothy! Look, you are not in Kansas anymore."

"Who the Hell are you?"

The man looked at him smugly.

"I am your fairy godfather."

Peter just looked at him askance.

The stranger returned a glare, a bit miffed that his joke fell flat.

"I am from your past... Er... I am from your future... Oh... I hate time paradoxes. Well, we haven't actually met before. Although, I am from your the timeline you know. I am Sam Weiss. And before you go sleeping around with anyone in a skirt, consider this. You could be sleeping with your great, great, great, great, great, great, great, great, great,... great, great grandmother. You don't want Wilma here having your babies all calling Fred 'Dada', do ya?"

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><p><strong>Author's Note: I don't quite know how this one will end. I have just been aching to use The Flintstones in a Fringe fic. Now I just love how there is a context within which to do it.<strong>


End file.
